


Home-Cooked

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, cooking disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:22:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29291298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Ron has grown up on home-cooked meals. Pansy attempts to make one of her own. It goes poorly.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley
Comments: 42
Kudos: 53
Collections: Rare Pairs RHM Read for LoveFest, The Floo Network





	Home-Cooked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [floorcoaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/floorcoaster/gifts).



> Written in February 2021 for the wonderful Floorcoaster. Thank you for all you do for the fandom, Floo! I hope you have a very happy birthday. <3
> 
> No beta; we die like men! All mistakes are my own.

**Home-Cooked**

Ron Weasley smells the disaster before he sees it.

His anxiety begins the moment he exits the lift and grows proportionately with the distance he travels from it. Once he’s walked the full length of the carpeted hallway to the door of his girlfriend’s flat, his dread has peaked. He knows what he’s about to step into. 

After a deep breath, he does. 

A thin haze of white-grey smoke hangs at eye level. It’s not enough to trigger the automatic alarms, but it’s close. Ron sends a silent spell into the living area. His aim, sharpened by years of Auror training, is dead accurate, and the window he hits unlatches and slides open a few inches. Enough to start venting, but not enough to cause a noticeable draft. 

He toes off his shoes and crosses the foyer with silent steps. That something _bad_ has happened in the flat is undeniable, but he prefers to determine its scope and scale without an audience. Wand still drawn, he backs against the wall and peers over his shoulder into the kitchen. 

Like the rest of the flat, the kitchen is oversized and beautiful. _Posh_ is Ginny’s favorite descriptor; his mother prefers _a little much_. Ron hasn’t formed an opinion either way, given how little the room is used. There’s typically a kettle set atop the gas range. A collection of loose leaf tea is stored in colorful tins, which remain pushed back against the backsplash until needed. A lone dish towel, always clean, hangs from the rack, light blue to complement the shining, navy countertops. It’s a sterile place. Neat in a way that runs contrary to its intended use. 

Or it usually is. Today is a vivid exception, and Ron has to actively remind himself not to drop his wand. 

The normally clear countertops are littered with cooking accoutrement. Prep bowls—both clean and dirty—are stacked high, and discarded ingredients sit in haphazard little piles, as if picked through and organized by a fastidious raccoon. Colorful mirepoix speckles the floor, bits of green celery and orange carrot vibrant against the white tile. A knife has been stabbed point-down into a bamboo cutting board. 

And Pansy Parkinson is at the center of it all. 

She stands before the stove, an impossibility in an apron which still bears the creases of its original packaging. Her short black hair is pinned back, and her arms are dusted with flour to the elbows, though Ron sees no evidence of that particular ingredient on the counter. In her right hand, she holds her wand. In her left, a wooden spoon, which drips sauce onto the floor. Two pots are set over the back burners. The right one is boiling over. Tendrils of dry spaghetti cling to the pot’s rim, as if trying to escape. The left is actively spitting, sizzling and burning as gravity pulls its contents into the flames. 

At this point, he’s seen enough. 

“Uh, Pansy?” 

“Ron.” She tosses the greeting over her shoulder, never taking her eyes from the stove. He’s not insulted. In fact, he’s grateful. She’s focused, and the situation seems tenuous enough that a moment’s inattention may result in a fire. 

“I didn’t know you could cook.” 

“Oh, trust me…” She prods the saucepot with her wand, flinching as it hisses. “I don’t.” 

A statement supported by all available evidence. It begs a question, however. One which Ron obligingly asks. “What’s all this, then?” 

Pansy sends a look over her shoulder, a perfectly-shaped eyebrow arched in challenge. “What does it look like?” 

He bites his tongue, lest the honest answer escape unintended. It looks like a series of health code violations. Like a Potions experiment gone terribly wrong. 

Like a misguided attempt to make him happy. 

Ron has been accused of limited range. Of insensitivity and ignorance when it comes to the emotional needs of others. But he’s a frequent bedfellow of insecurity. He knows it when he sees it, and seeing it in her breaks his heart. 

“Pansy.” She looks back at him again, dark eyes wide as a doe’s and half as innocent. “Why are you doing this?” 

Twin spots of color rise on her cheeks. “I’m doing this for _you_ ,” she says, not without some acidity. “A home-cooked meal, just like your mo—”

Ron pulls her close. The spoon clatters to the floor, splattering the pristine cabinets with bright red sauce. Pansy is tense until their lips meet. She relaxes beneath the familiarity of his kiss, moving her tongue against his as her body becomes lithe beneath his hands. When she wraps her arms around his neck, and the length of her wand rests serenely against the broad span of his back, Ron knows it’s safe to disengage. They can continue the conversation without it becoming a row. 

“I don’t need this,” he says against her lips. 

“But—” She tries to back away; Ron holds her firm.

“I _don’t_ ,” he repeats. “I’ve had a lifetime of home-cooked meals. We never had the means for more.” 

Pansy tilts her head back so that their gazes meet. They’ve never tiptoed around their vastly different childhoods, or what they each needed to do to reach the point where a future together feels not only possible, but probable. But that doesn’t mean that the conversations aren’t laced with a measure of pain. A bitter note that they need to endure to reach the sweetness waiting on the opposite side. 

“I thought this would make you happy,” she says. 

“ _You_ make me happy.” 

“But your mother…” 

Ron cups her face in his hands, leans down so that his forehead rests against hers. “I don’t want my mother. I want _you_ , and everything that entails.” 

He kisses her again, and it almost turns into more. But the smell of burned sauce is stronger now, the hiss of water meeting flame more insistent. He breaks the kiss, but gives her lip a playful nip at the end—a promise to be kept later.

“How about take away?” he suggests. 

Her eyes sparkle with relief and just a touch of mischief. “Thai?” 

Their favorite. Ron smiles his agreement. “You order, I’ll tidy up?” 

Pansy lifts onto her toes to give him a final, grateful peck. 

“You’re a _king_ , Ron Weasley.” 

He swats at her bum as she prances from the kitchen, and her laugh makes him feel like the luckiest bloke on the planet.

A feeling he holds close as he scrapes burnt pasta from the bottom of a metal saucepan.

**The End**


End file.
